


My Compliments to You

by ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade)



Series: Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 20:48:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2284035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is a regular customer at Greg's bakery. They feel far more towards each other than they let on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I found a bakery called 'Gregory's Bread', and after a conversation full of mystrade bakery AU headcanons with [koe](http://koechaartblog.tumblr.com), this happened.
> 
> Mycroft is 30, Greg is a couple of years older.

Mycroft has never forgotten about his childhood dream job. Other children tended to entertain dreams of becoming a police officer, a doctor, an astronaut. His own brother had wanted to become a pirate, up until the day his proclaimed first mate and dog had been put down. Mycroft, however, had wanted to become a baker; to open up a bakery and let the wonderful smell of freshly baked bread waft down the streets, enticing people into his shop to share the blessing of bread with others. And when they’d leave the shop, they’d leave with a bag of bread in one hand, a big smile on their face, and a promise to come back again.

Familial obligations and expectations got in the way. Forced him to craft a callous, detached persona, and to mature before it was his time.

Now the only smiles he sees belong to smarmy, condescending diplomats and politicians, who fall into the trap of underestimating him because he holds an important position at the young age of thirty. Judgemental idiots, the lot of them.

He hasn’t forgotten about his childhood dream, though. There’s always been a cherished spot in Mycroft’s heart that the façade has never been able to smother, untouched by work or familial obligations, and it manifests itself in his daily routine. Acquiring breakfast is one part of his day that he refuses to delegate to anyone else, not even to his most trusted personal assistant. After all, what’s the point of buying bread if one cannot experience being surrounded by the sweet, sweet smell of baking bread?

And no place offers that better than Gregory’s Bread. The bakery opens at 6:30 in the morning, but Mycroft suspects the kitchens are in full use long before then. Part of his routine is to arrive slightly earlier, car idling by the kerb while he watches the shelves fill up with all kinds of bread.

It’s a modest bakery—small and independent with a handful of employees on rotation for the morning shift. He’s frequented this place often enough to pick up on their schedule: the lady with black, curly hair—Sally, baker—opens on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Some days she takes his order, and on other days, a young, sincere man—Dimmock, assistant baker—serves him. Both serve him with an honest smile, a sense of efficiency, and an unmistakable pride in the bread they sell. The days he looks forward to the most, however, are Wednesdays and Fridays.

Mycroft waits in the backseat, leaning forward ever so slightly to peer through the windscreen with barely concealed anticipation. The door to the bakery finally swings open forcefully. Mycroft stifles a smile. As usual, the head baker—at least Mycroft thinks he’s the head baker, if the height of his baker’s hat is anything to go by—has kicked the door open again; understandable, since his hands are full with the A-frame sign as he hauls it outside. His red neckerchief stands out against the stark white of his uniform and the black bistro apron tied securely around his waist.

While he writes the day’s specials with a firm and steady hand, Mycroft studies his figure, drawing to the forefront details he has inadvertently observed and filed away over endless Wednesday and Friday mornings. Head baker, never seen working out the front, owner. _Gregory._

Every morning, without fail, Mycroft tells Sally or Dimmock to give the owner his compliments, yet he has never allowed himself the privilege of actually meeting Gregory in person. In fact, he doesn’t even know if Gregory knows of his existence. The one and only time Sally had offered to call Gregory out, Mycroft had quickly dismissed the suggestion, claiming it entirely unnecessary. He knew it must have come across as standoffish, his default, work mask slipping into place, but in all honesty, his response stemmed from an uncertainty in navigating social interactions in the closest thing he has to a personal life. It should have been easy; a simple word of appreciation to the baker whose bread and bakery serves as the high point of his day. A simple word of appreciation to the only person he truly wants to thank, yet he can’t find the words or actions to do so.

Since then, he’s relived the moment over and over in his mind, considering all the ways the encounter could have played out, and all the ways he could instigate new encounters, but that’s where it ends. He doesn’t know how to make it reality. And so when Gregory heads in the car’s direction a moment later, the last thing Mycroft expects is for him to rap gently on the car window. Mycroft’s manners prompt him to open the window, heart thudding heavily in his chest. It calms when he sees Gregory, all bright, brown eyes and warm smiles, and with him he brings the aroma of freshly baked bread.

“Um… Sal tells me you wait here every day before we open,” he starts, hesitant and rubbing at the nape of his neck absently. “Would you like to, er, wait inside instead? I know we don’t open for another ten minutes, but…”

Up this close, Mycroft can see the greying hairs of Gregory’s temples and fringe, peeking out from under the baker’s hat, and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. He can see the smudges of flour on his left cheek and the right side of his neck, and for a moment Mycroft has the irrational thought to reach out and wipe it away. There are so many things he has never noticed from his vantage point inside the car, and God help him, he’d like to know more, so he swallows past the lump the in his throat and murmurs, “That would be lovely.”

 

* * *

 

“Right.” Gregory gestures to the tables in the small seating area. “Just sit down wherever, um…”

“Mycroft.”

“Mycroft. Fancy name, that, but it suits you. Well, I need to count on and then I’ll get your breakfast.”

He’s never taken the opportunity to sit down here, usually opting for takeaway so he can bring it to the Diogenes and eat in the comfort and quiet of his own club before heading off to his office. It’s a nice change. His senses are tingling with excitement, revelling in the scent of the bread filling his nostrils, so strong that he can almost taste it on his tongue. His ears pick up on the sounds coming from the kitchen, heralding the creation and completion of another batch of bread, and echoed by the clinking of coins from the register. His gaze surveys the surroundings, which takes on a warm, yellow glow, illuminated by the sunbeams filtering through the full-length windows.

“Sal?” Gregory calls out. “I’m gonna take over the front for a bit, so can you guys handle the kitchen, please?”

“What? You never—oh!” Sally pokes her head out and stops midsentence when she sees Mycroft sitting at the table. She raises her eyebrows and shoots Gregory a knowing look, who glares at her from behind the till. “Take all the time you need for your date, boss. We can handle this.” 

Date? _Date?_ Mycroft stiffens.

Gregory coughs. Violently. Sally has ducked out of sight. And Mycroft is still figuring out how to react to Sally’s words.

“Just ignore her,” Gregory says after he catches his breath.  

“Close friend?”

“Yeah, since childhood. We both wanted to become bakers, and I always wanted to open a bakery.  I did a business degree and then we trained to become bakers at the same school. Sal’s the little sister I never had.” Gregory laughs. “How about you? Any siblings?”

“A younger brother, seven years my junior.” Mycroft frowns. “He can be rather… trying at times.”

“Well, that’s younger siblings for you.” Gregory laughs—a contagious, mirthful sound that quickly replaces Mycroft’s frown with a small smile.

Gregory washes his hands and dons a pair of gloves, struggling to fit the left glove on properly. Mycroft’s gaze falls on the flex of his forearm’s muscles, drawing his attention to the poorly rolled up sleeve, hanging loose around the elbow. It’s rather endearing, really, watching Gregory repeatedly drag it along his side in an attempt to push it back past the elbow to prevent it from sliding further. And the sudden urge to stand behind Gregory to fix it for him is so overwhelming that he momentarily loses focus of the conversation.

“Mycroft?”

“My apologies, I was… elsewhere.” Mycroft clears his throat, pointedly looking away from Gregory’s arms.

“Preoccupied with matters?”

“One could say so,” Mycroft replies. He’d rather be evasive than tell the truth this time.

“Work soon, then?”

“It never stops, I’m afraid,” he says wryly. At least that much is true.

“Hmm, what do you do?”

“Just a bit of government work.”

“No wonder it never stops.” Gregory chuckles. He bustles around for a bit more before and then comes around to sit opposite Mycroft. Pushing a paper bag across the table, he says, “Here you go—no, no, put your wallet away; you come here every bloody day, so this one’s on the house.” 

“I—very well, if you insist.” Mycroft doesn’t have the words to express the gratitude for, well, everything that constitutes the myriad of feelings bubbling forth from that cherished spot inside of him, but he supposes this is a good start. One look into those rich, brown eyes, and he’s smiling—he can’t help it—and Gregory is smiling back at him. “Thank you. And… my compliments to you.”

Mycroft leaves the bakery with a bag of bread in his hand, a smile still on his face, and an unspoken promise to come back again. Halfway through his breakfast at the Diogenes, it dawns on him that Gregory had known his exact order without asking, and a warm feeling envelopes him at the very thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same story from Greg's perspective.

Every morning, after his bakery—Gregory’s Bread, named in memory of his late grandfather who shared his name—opens its doors to the public, Greg hears a crisp, polite voice say, “I must be going now. Give my compliments to the owner.”

He never goes out to express his thanks in return. Of course, he is grateful, elated, even—no doubt about that. Nothing makes him happier than a customer who enjoys his bread enough to come back a second time, let alone a customer who comes back on a daily basis without fail at 6:30 in the morning. He does, however, make it a point to emerge from the kitchen once the customer has left, on occasion catching a glimpse of the man’s profile, but most times, just watching the lean figure’s retreating back and thanking him silently for his continued patronage from afar.

“Why don’t you ever come out when he’s actually here?” Sally asks from behind the counter.

Greg wipes his hands down the front of his apron and then busies himself with straightening baskets that are already straight. “It’s all about the timing, Sal.”

That, and he’s considered the multiple ways their first meeting could play out, and all of them seem hurried and brief, given that the man appears to visit the bakery en route to work. And, God help him, but he wants _more._

“Oh bollocks. Are you _still_ worked up about that time I told him to give his compliments to you in person?”

Oh. And not to mention, that specific incident…

“He said it was, and I quote, ‘entirely unnecessary’ _,_ and then left! He obviously doesn’t want to see me.”

Sally follows Greg back into the kitchen to continue their conversation. “Boss, you have it bad for a man you haven’t even talked to.”

“Is this the posh bloke?” Dimmock pipes up.

“Oh no, not you too, Dim,” Greg groans.

“Interested?”

“What, no, I—”

“The bread he orders every day is your favourite too.” Dimmock grins, sidling over to elbow Greg in the side. “And don’t forget he never leaves without giving his compliments to you.”

“I know. Stop it, you’re embarrassing me!”  

“Of course he knows, Dim. You’ve seen the boss lurking at the entrance of the kitchen just so he can hear his voice over the ruckus you make.” Sally turns to Greg and adds, “But I bet you don’t know that he waits at the kerb every morning before we open, do you?”

“Huh?”

“The black car, surely you’ve seen it when you take out the sign.”

“Oh. I’d noticed the car, but I didn’t realise that was him.”

Sally hums. “Real posh type, it seems. Expensive wardrobe, a chauffeur, public schoolboy accent. Seems like a good catch.”

Dimmock whistles his approval and emphasises it with a messy, floury slap on Greg’s back. “Maybe you should ask him to wait inside next time.”

Greg groans again. He must really be pathetically obvious if his friends and co-workers are itching to involve themselves in his non-existent love life. Dimmock does have a good idea, though. He’d just need to convince prying eyes and ears away from the entrance of the kitchen...

“Alright, that’s enough! Get back to work.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey boss!”

“Sal?”

“It’s finally Wednesday,” she points out.

“Yeah, and?”

“It’s your day to bring out the sign!” Sally and Dimmock chorus.

“Invite him in!”

“Not a chance.”

“Or I could do it.” There’s a big smile on Sally’s face, one that matches everyone else’s in the kitchen, and he imagines this must be how it feels for little birds facing their predators. Especially when Sally follows him into the shop. “It’ll be fine, boss.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“You haven’t seen the look on his face when he says his compliments speech.” Sally’s smile is less teasing and more sincere now, and Greg finds himself wanting to believe her. “Now get out there.” She drops a piece of chalk into his apron’s pocket and pushes the sign into his hands, giving him a small nudge towards the door. “I promise we’ll stay hidden in the kitchen.”

Greg heaves a sigh, and he’s not sure whether his heart is beating faster from the nerves or anticipation. Perhaps this is the timing he’s been waiting for.

 

* * *

 

There. He scrubs his face and scratches at a spot behind his ear, swallowing nervously. The last word is finally written and the time spent delaying has come to an end.

With a confident smile on his face—at least he hopes it looks confident, because he certainly doesn’t _feel_ confident—he walks over to the black car and knocks gently on the window.

The window rolls down, and Greg’s mouth goes dry as he meets his customer face to face for the first time.

“Um… Sal tells me you wait here every day before we open. Would you like to, er, wait inside instead?” _Okay, that’s a nice start. Good job recovering there, brain and mouth. Now concentrate on smiling, on looking friendly. Just make conversation._ “I know we don’t open for another ten minutes, but…”

It only takes a simple, murmured response for Greg’s heart to skid to a stop.

“That would be lovely.”

 

* * *

 

Mycroft. His name is Mycroft, he’s wearing a three piece suit, he’s got the most beautiful eyes, a smattering of freckles over his nose and cheekbones, and he’s sitting in the shop like it’s the most bloody natural thing in the world to do.

And if he doesn’t stop staring, Mycroft will definitely notice. “Sal?” Greg calls out. “I’m gonna take over the front for a bit, so can you guys handle the kitchen, please?”

“What? You never—oh!” Sally pokes her head out and stops midsentence when she sees Mycroft sitting at the table. She raises her eyebrows and the knowing look she shoots at Greg sets alarms off at the back of his brain. He panics. “Take all the time you need for your date, boss. We can handle this.” 

Greg wants to insist it’s not a date, but Sally has disappeared back into the kitchen, and he’s still choking from sheer mortification anyway. Mycroft, bless the man, seems unnerved by the whole fiasco.

“Just ignore her,” he croaks.

“Close friend?”

“Yeah. Since childhood.”

Surprisingly, he finds himself explaining his childhood dream and sibling-like relationship with Sally while he counts out the cash for the till, and throughout the course of the conversation, discovers that Mycroft has a lovely smile—so distracting that he finds it extremely difficult to keep up the conversation and fix Mycroft’s order at the same time. In fact, he’s thankful he has his back to Mycroft for a good portion of the time, because he’s positive the goofy grin plastered across his face won’t be leaving any time soon.

Sadly enough, though, Mycroft _will_ be leaving soon, given that it’s half past already. Just where has the time gone? He takes the seat opposite Mycroft, forcing himself to stay calm while meeting those beautiful eyes, and slides a paper bag across the table towards him. “Here you go—no, no put your wallet away!” He has half a mind to swat Mycroft’s hands away from his pocket, but settles for a fierce glare instead. “You come here every bloody day,” and not to mention, your words are the highlight of my day, Greg doesn’t say, “So this one’s on the house.”

“I—very well, if you insist.” Mycroft returns his wallet and draws the paper bag close to him, fiddling with the edges before meeting Greg’s gaze. And Greg doesn’t think he can ever get used to the brilliant smile that spreads across Mycroft’s face, or the stutter in his chest when Mycroft leans forward ever so slightly and says, “Thank you. And… my compliments to you.” 


End file.
